


Fog

by missmoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:29:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmoriarty/pseuds/missmoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fog surrounding Sherlock was like the fog at its thickest in the middle of a London autumn. The detective couldn’t see much surrounding him and the fog did not promise to retreat; it almost suffocated him and he realised how helpless he was. After a moment of thinking, calculating, and attempting to observe where he was, Sherlock decided to take the first steps forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fog

**Author's Note:**

> This has randomly came to me in English lit because I'd much rather think of Sherlock than to learn about Turn of the Screw. I'm quite thankful that I'll most likely never step into that stupid class in my whole life again.
> 
> I could write an essay on how much I hate my class.
> 
> It's a short one. Just needed a break from revising about governesses and Victorian times and ghosts. I'm sure someone out there feels me. Two things: 1. I'm bad at titles and 2. I'm bad at summaries. I realise I sell my story short to my friends and I most likely do to any audience who come across this.
> 
> Thank you so much to Laura because she's the girl I trust on correcting me and offering any 9pm worries about the fact that I need to rewatch Sherlock.

The fog surrounding Sherlock was like the fog at its thickest in the middle of a London autumn. The detective couldn’t see much surrounding him and the fog did not promise to retreat; it almost suffocated him and he realised how helpless he was. After a moment of thinking, calculating, and attempting to observe where he was, Sherlock decided to take the first steps forward.

Moving through the fog felt like swimming in thick nothingness. As he continued to take difficult steps towards nowhere, it seemed, Sherlock realised that he was alone. It was not something that had come in his mind when he first woke up in such strange, but through the movements alone, the man realised how empty the place seemed to be. He tried not to let the fear feed into him and yet he could not help but stop and dread what this meant; the detective was alone again.

It had been months since he had last seen John. The man was very busy with his wife, of course, which was understandable. Even after witnessing what happened to Sherlock when John left him, the doctor still insisted on staying away from Baker Street. Sherlock was very sure it was guilt, after what the detective had done for the man and his wife, but the realisation did not mean that he was less hurt than he expected to be. Days in 221b felt like moving through the thick fog; almost as if he wasn’t going anywhere, and that he nothing familiar surrounding him. If he really had to admit, he was extremely lonely and yet he had no one to tell such things to.

The lone detective decided such thoughts shouldn’t be obstacles to him. Although he hadn’t heard anything around him, he was sure that he had seen things. Quick flashes of black and red eyes showing in the corner of his mind; it almost brought Sherlock back to the hound of Baskerville. The thought alone made the detective shudder and let out a sharp breath, and he was soon back on the move.

The flashes continued and they made the detective extremely alert, so much that he realised he had began sprinting through the fog. It did not mean that he moved faster; surprisingly, it almost felt like he was moving slower and Sherlock found himself freezing again, looking around in shock. He didn’t know how longer he had to go on until he found something or someone. Even though he was wearing his coat, he had nothing in his pockets that should be there. His phone was gone and he had no way of alerting anyone about his whereabouts, nor could he check where he was either. This made him spend more time panicking. It took almost ten minutes for Sherlock to recollect himself and to continue to push on; however, his breath was still coming out in pants and Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to wipe his tears away from his wet cheeks. It wasn’t as if there anyone to watch him.

One step turned into two, and two steps turned into three. The detective almost made it a game, counting the steps he was taking, which he found calmed his breathing. He did not feel as panicked as he had been before and he found himself pushing on with more determination, ignoring the increasing dark flashes blending with the fog. Sherlock’s breathing became more erratic when he noticed a door in front of him, just a few more steps to take, and the man was soon able to touch the doorknob.

The metal felt almost forgiving on his hand. Sherlock had not counted how many minutes, or rather hours, he had been moving through the fog but he realised then how desperate he had been to touch something solid. The detective closed his eyes and enjoyed the coolness of the metal and the hard texture when he pressed his hand and twisted his wrist to open the door. As soon as he opened his eyes, he walked inside the room hurriedly, eager to escape the fog.

As soon as he entered the room, Sherlock found that he hadn’t escaped the fog entirely. It had followed him inside the room and it settled along the lower side of the room. When the detective’s eyes flicked to the floor, he realised that he was not alone. The first thing that he had noticed was that someone was kneeling on the floor, his hands resting up high in a surrender way and his head was tipped forward, a mop of messy ginger hair covering his face.

Across from Sherlock, another person stood with his back to him, his body erect and his hands casually by his side. He was wearing a tailored, tight fitting suit and he was obstructing the kneeling man. His hair almost blended in with the darkness and it did not take the detective long to realise who it was.

Before Sherlock could even speak, the standing made a sound that caused the detective to tense. His hand moved to his suit jacket almost automatically but he soon dropped it when he found the gesture useless; he was reminded, again, that he had woken up helplessly and empty. One glance around the room and Sherlock realised that he could recognise where he was; the distinguishable layout took him back to Magnussen’s office. The detective breathed out slowly and dared to glance behind once; when he turned, he faced a bare wall, the door gone and nowhere to be seen. 

“Came to play with daddy, Sherlock?” 

The words caused the detective to turn around and to face the man again, his eyes narrowing when he found himself looking into the same dark and dull eyes. He licked his lips slowly and checked on the man kneeling, before frowning when the standing man made the same sound again. For a moment, Sherlock couldn’t find his tongue, but as soon as he did, his eyes were back on the man.

“What is it that you want, Moriarty?” He asked, his voice thick with spite. He did not glance around anymore but he did check on the sandy-haired man at times, his eyes flicking hurriedly from the grinning face to the tipped head, and Sherlock soon realised that his fists were tense by his side.

“You know what I want, Sherlock. You know why you’re here.” The criminal drawled, tilting his head as his grin grew wider. He gestured towards the kneeling man and chuckled, again, making Sherlock’s shoulders rise and his fists clenched tighter.

There was a moment of silence passing between them. The two standing men stared at each other; Moriarty hands almost dangled by his side while they waited, and his grin never left his face while Sherlock kept switching between the kneeling man and the criminal, bristling at any form of movement coming from Moriarty. 

When the criminal raised his hand - still very casual, the grin slowly turning into a playful and almost teasing smirk - Sherlock took a step forward, leaning towards the kneeling man in a protective manner. Of course, the criminal noticed and he gave a soft chuckle, his head tilted towards the kneeling man too.

“Isn’t he adorable on his knees, Sherlock? One would never expect to see the soldier on his knees.” Moriarty said and yawned when Sherlock huffed, obviously displeased with the arrangement. 

Yet, the detective realised that he had to play. Not only was he empty handed, and there was no visible exit, but it seemed as if John himself had been left without a weapon, or else the detective was unable to explain why he would stay on his knees. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock soon turned his attention to Moriarty.

“Yes. I’m sure there is a valid reason for why John is on his knees, Moriarty.” He answered. At the mention of his name, the kneeling doctor tipped his head back, but their eyes did not meet. Sherlock understood and just watched the man’s face, observing and judging his emotions, before he again returned his attention to the criminal.

The smirk on the criminal’s face was long gone, and it was not replaced by a grin either. What shadowed Moriarty’s pale face was far worse; a twisted frown adorned the man’s face and even though it was not an image of immense beauty, Sherlock still found his face quite handsome. 

For a moment, the detective was distracted by the thought. His eyes stayed glued to the criminal’s face and they said nothing for a while. In the silence, Moriarty’s face softened and he looked almost peaceful, yet there still was a hint of displeasure. 

“This is no guessing game, Sherlock. You know why I’m here. You know why he is here.” The criminal snarled and took a step towards John. Before Sherlock could do anything about the situation, Moriarty had already grabbed John’s hair and forced his head back in an almost unnatural way.

“Stop - stop, Moriarty.” Sherlock snapped, taking a step forward, his hands reaching out to grab for Moriarty.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw the quick flash of a cold, harsh metal and he ducked his head, almost in a submissive way.

“We really don’t have to do this, Sherlock. We really don’t. He’s just making this hard for me - for you.” Moriarty said, not looking extremely concerned by the detective as he toyed with the gun, watching it glint whenever the handle caught the light. Next to him, John watched the light above them as he stayed in the same position, his eyes almost glistening under the harsh light. Right then, Sherlock came to the realisation that John was close to tears.

“He isn’t. It’s not his fault, Moriarty.” Sherlock insisted, licking his lips. He hadn’t realised that he was panting and yet, he needed to lick his dry lips quite a few times for him to speak again. “We - we both know this is between us. This is not about John.”

The criminal chuckled and gave a small nod, letting go of John’s hair before giving a few pats. Sherlock had to hold himself back, knowing that his temper was not welcomed then. He looked around the room again, not really able to bring himself to look at the doctor, knowing how humiliated John must feel.

“No, you’re right. You are right, Sherlock. This...this is between us. Us two.” The madman whispered, bringing the gun up slowly. “I promised to burn your heart, Sherlock. Now; if I do kill John, that would shatter it in two. Wouldn’t it? Yet, you have no way of making a deal, Sherlock. To save your damsel in distress.” He purred, the gun aiming back at John, causing Sherlock to take another step forward.

“It’s not him. He’s not the key, Moriarty, and you know this.” Sherlock insisted, speaking fast, his eyes narrowing as he thought over what exactly he could say to save the doctor. Before he could say more, he noticed that the gun had changed from being aimed at John and instead was aimed back at him again.

“You’re being ordinary again, Sherl. You know I don’t like this.” Moriarty said, his voice drawling softly. He smiled and moved the gun so that it aimed towards the detective’s heart. “I will burn you, Sherlock. I’ll burn the heart out of you.”

Sherlock, nor John, had a chance to react before the gun was fired. The sensation of being shot was familiar to both men, yet it took Sherlock by surprise and he took a moment to mumble an incoherent link of words before he fell to the floor.

The detective’s vision was blurred and he almost lost the sense of hearing, or else he couldn’t explain why the voices sounded disoriented and almost frightening. The lapse of time between John getting to him caused the detective to be filled with dread and fear; he could not help giving a sharp cry for the doctor. Yet, the strong hands holding him were soon gone, and the detective found himself laid somewhere soft.

Sherlock’s eyes moved across the room in confusion, heavy, while his hands patted the space surrounding him. The first thing he realised was that instead of the hard, cold floor, he was resting in a comforting space; the second thing was that he was not in pain nor was he bleeding. The last thing that came to Sherlock’s mind was the realisation that he was alone, without John in sight.


End file.
